The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  She tried not to let her eyes stray anymore. It was a difficult task; his muscled chest was a tempting view. So was the flat expanse of his abdomen, bisected by the trail of dark, soft hair that arrowed downward. Triotians, she thought, were too damned beautiful for anyone’s equilibrium. And somehow this one, this unusual dark-haired one, was even more tempting to her than Wolf’s golden beauty had been.

  When she finished he repeated his earlier words, still not looking at her.

  “Now just get out.”

  She shrugged, as if it meant little to her. “You want to wallow in it a while longer? Fine. I understand.”

  His eyes snapped open. “In Hades you do.”

  “That’s why I do,” she corrected, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I’ve been in Hades, Dax. For the last year.”

  He let out a short, angry breath. “And you think because of that you understand? You understand nothing of this.”

  He was talking. He was angry, but he was talking. It was what she’d hoped for, Califa told herself. She chose her words with care.

  “Perhaps not, exactly. But I know how it feels to have your world stolen from you. To lose all who were once your friends and companions. To be hunted, like a wild creature, solely because of who you are. Or because of what they’ve made you become.”

  He muttered something under his breath, something she couldn’t hear. But he didn’t order her to get out again. She steeled herself, thinking this spilling of guts an agony beyond any she’d ever experienced. But she was driven by the need to ease his pain. She had learned the hard way about the relief of sharing the load with someone; by the time she had finally realized it, she had no one there to share with.

  “And I know how it feels to be helpless, to be able to do nothing, when everything within you is screaming out to fight, to do something, anything. And you can’t.”

  “But I could have!”

  It burst from him as if from a disrupter, a sudden blast of words that had become explosive under too much pressure for too long. And instantly his expression went rigid, and he turned his face away from her.

  “You could have . . . what?”

  He remained silent, staring anew out the viewport.

  “Dax—”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s going to tear you apart if you don’t—”

  “Get out,” he repeated, his hand once more clenching around the handle of his blade.

  “Well, that would solve your problems, wouldn’t it?” she said, eyeing the knife with a disdain that wasn’t entirely feigned. “You wouldn’t have to talk to me, or decide whether to turn me in to the Coalition, or execute me. You could just say you lost your temper. What’s one slave more or less?”

  His eyes flicked to her then. “Damn you to Hades,” he ground out. But his fingers relaxed around the knife’s grip.

  “I told you, I’m already there.” And I didn’t think it could get any worse, she thought. But it had, the moment she’d laid eyes on this man. She made herself ask again. “You could have what, Dax?”

  Again he looked away, stubbornly silent.

  “You have to talk to somebody,” she insisted. “And since I’m the only one who knows you’re Triotian—”

  “I’m not.”

  That stopped her for a moment. “What?”

  He turned his head. Califa met his gaze with an effort; it was hard to look at those eyes and remember how blazingly alive they had once been.

  “I gave up my right to be called Triotian long ago.”

  She frowned. “You mean when you became a skypirate? I know Triotian laws about theft and piracy are strict—”

  He grimaced. “They’re more than strict. Only murder and rape are considered worse. It simply isn’t tolerated. But those laws haven’t had to be enforced for decades. There was no need. There hasn’t been a murder, or a rape, and only minor property disputes, settled by the council.”

  “And the council deals with . . . piracy as well?”

  “They’ve never had to. No real Triotian would ever stoop to such activity, even if the penalty wasn’t banishment.”

  “Banishment?”

  “Forever. The worst possible punishment for a Triotian, beyond even death.”

  What must it feel like, Califa wondered, to belong to a world so beloved by its people that exile was indeed a fate worse than death? Was that how Dax felt? He’d become a skypirate when he’d thought there was nothing else left for him. And now he was faced with the possibility that he’d been wrong, but living with the fact that what he’d become would be an abomination to the world he’d thought dead.

  “We’re truly in the same straits, aren’t we?” she whispered. “Our worlds still exist, but we can no longer be a part of them because of what we are now.”

  He stared at her. “Maybe you do understand.”

  “How did you wind up where Roxton found you?”

  He didn’t question her knowledge. He only laughed, a harsh, tortured sound that sent a chill down her spine. “Simple. I ran away.”

  Califa blinked. “Ran away? From what?”

  He lifted his knife, and it took all of Califa’s nerve not to draw back. He ran a thumb over the blade. Califa held her breath, the room so quiet she could hear the sound of his thumb scraping over the razor edge.

  “From my father,” he said at last. “We had an argument. A fight, really. The last in a long line of fights.”

  “About?” Califa prompted when he stopped; she said it gently, she didn’t want him to close up on her again.

  “He is . . . was an artist.”

  Califa noted the change in wording, and wondered if he knew his father was dead, or had just assumed the worst. And if he wasn’t sure . . . She knew it must have occurred to him that his family could be among the few survivors. Perhaps that thought was what was tormenting him so now.

  “An artist?” she prompted.

  “A sculptor. As was my mother. And my sister. All somewhat celebrated on Trios. But he was an unbending authoritarian, as well. He expected me to follow in the family tradition, no excuses.”

  Califa blinked. “You’re a sculptor?”

  “Hardly.” He gestured toward the silver dulcetpipe that lay discarded on the table. “My only artistic talent is music, and that is minuscule.”

  “Hardly,” she echoed, remembering the miracle he had wrought on that delicate instrument the other night. “That is what you fought about?”

  Dax nodded. “He wanted me to pursue music.”

  “And you wanted . . . ?”

  He glanced out the viewport once more, then looked back at her. “I wanted to fly. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  She thought of him docking the shuttle in flight, of the Evening Star dancing to his command, and of the dark fighter responding like some shadowy warbird to a master’s hand.

  “If what I’ve seen is an example,” she said softly, “you had no choice. You were born to it.”

  He let out a long breath, and Califa sensed some of his tension had gone with it. When he looked at her then, his expression was less rigid, as if her understanding had in some way helped.

  “My father didn’t see it that way. We compromised, when I was younger. I went to The School of Arts for him, and flight school for me. He allowed it mainly because Dare was also there, and it was an honor to attend with the royal prince.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “And also because Dare nagged him into letting me go. He needed me, he said, to push him into doing his best.”

  That was a thought worthy of the best warriors of the Coalition, she thought. And it did not surprise her that it had come from the man she’d known as Wolf, the man who had unknowingly taught her so much about slavery, about surviving while still holding on to that lit
tle bit of yourself they allowed you to keep.

  “So you learned together.”

  “Yes. We were . . . competitive. And well matched.” His mouth quirked. “Dare’s father once said that whatever advantage Dare had in skill, I made up for in recklessness.”

  She knew he was remembering her own lecture to him on the subject, and she smiled wryly. “An observant man. What did your father think of this?”

  “My father was certain I would outgrow my need to fly, and settle down where he thought I belonged.”

  She studied him for a moment. “But instead, you decided where you thought you belonged.”

  It wasn’t a question, and his expression told her of the accuracy of her guess.

  “The chance came for me to take over a wing of the Triotian air defense. The Wing Leader was going to retire. I went to Dare’s father and asked to try for it.”

  She blinked. “You went to the king?”

  Dax shrugged. “He was like an uncle, almost. Dare and I were always together. He got used to having me underfoot all the time, when we were children, even at the palace.”

  Califa felt a twinge of self-castigation at the image of two boys, both with the golden skin of Trios, one blond, one dark, laughing with the joyous exuberance of youth. A joy that would be forcibly taken away from them far too soon.

  She had never thought deeply about slaves before she had become one; they had just been there, a part of her life. But now it was at the core of every part of her. She thought again of Wolf, and what had been taken from him: family, boyhood friends, his very world. And of Dax, who had lost nearly as much, and who because of it had wound up living a life that went against all he’d ever known. And all because of the monstrous machine she had supported. Perhaps it was just punishment that she now be enslaved in turn by that same machine, she thought wearily.

  She dragged her mind back to the present; she had gotten through to him, she didn’t dare stop now.

  “So King Galen gave you the job?”

  He chuckled, and for the first time it sounded genuine. “King Galen never gave anyone anything. But he agreed to let me try for it. I had to beat two men and one woman with more time in the wing in a fly-off.”

  “Which you did, of course.”

  Unexpectedly, he grinned. It took Califa’s breath away, and sent her blood racing. She wished she could keep him amid these happier memories forever, if it would bring that life back to his eyes.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I’d been tested against the best. If I’d learned flying against anyone but Dare, I never would have pulled it off. The woman was a great pilot. But I got the position.”

  “Your father must have been upset.”

  “That,” Dax said dryly, “is an understatement. He was furious. I’d backed him into a corner. There was no graceful way to turn down an offer from the king.”

  “So you fought,” she said softly. And then wished she hadn’t; the temporary lightness faded from his expression.

  “Yes. We fought. Loud and long and ugly.” A dark, grim look shadowed his eyes. “My mother had to separate us, before we resorted to blows. She told me to give him time to calm down, to get used to the idea.” His jaw clenched. “She was always the peacemaker, even though she liked the idea of my flying no better than my father.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I decided I would do exactly as she said. If he needed time to calm down, I’d give it to him. Lots of it. I knew of a ship heading out to Clarion. I’d always wanted to see the Clarion Starworks that built the ship I’d learn to fly on.”

  And the Evening Star, Califa thought, and Dax nodded as if she’d spoken before he continued. She had to do little prompting, as if now that the words had begun to flow, he couldn’t stop them even if he wished.

  “So I went. My plan was to hitch a ride on a transport heading back, after my father had calmed himself.”

  “Didn’t that make him angrier?”

  “He didn’t know. I told no one, except my sister.” His eyes went dark with pain. “My little sister. She was the only one who understood. The only one who told me to do what I wanted to do, not what anyone else expected of me.”

  Califa could almost feel the anguish radiating from him. “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” she asked, her tone exquisitely gentle.

  “Everyone did. There was much to love about Brielle.” His mouth twisted then, harshly. He gave her a forbidding look. “Dare could have told you that.”

  Califa blinked. “What?”

  “They were bonded. She was his mate.”

  Califa smothered a gasp. Then, as the memories tumbled into place, she exclaimed, “The woman who was with him . . . she had dark hair, so they thought she wasn’t Triotian . . .”

  Her voice trailed away. This was why he had reacted so fiercely to that part of her story. He had known then that his sister was dead.

  “Eos, Dax, I’m sorry. Had I known, I would have tried for more gentleness in the telling.”

  “There is no gentle way to tell a thing like that. But I already knew she must be gone. Dare would never have taken up with your Shaylah unless Brielle was long dead. It is not the Triotian way.”

  He looked away then, staring at the viewport as if he hadn’t spent days doing so. Afraid he would retreat into that silence again, she tried to get past the ugly revelation.

  “Had your father calmed by the time you returned?”

  “I don’t know,” he said flatly. “I never went back.”

  Califa gaped at him. “What? Why?”

  He looked at her then, his eyes hot with anger. When she’d first come in she would have given much to see that look; now, when it was directed at her, it made her shiver.

  “Because between the time I left Trios and the time I arrived on Clarion, the all-mighty, all-powerful Coalition had attacked. By the time I found out about it, there was nothing left but rubble and bodies. I had no place to go back to. And no one. My short temper had cost me my world.”

  Califa could think of nothing to say, nothing that could ease such pain, nothing that could change the fact that in Dax’s eyes, she stood for the power that had done this to him. She felt that unaccustomed moisture sting her eyes again, but she refused herself the indulgence of trying to hide it. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened, just as there was nothing Dax could have done.

  But I could have!

  His poignant exclamation, when she had spoken of being able to do nothing, echoed in her ears.

  “That’s what you meant,” she breathed in sudden understanding. “You think you could have done something, if you’d been there.”

  “I could have fought, at least.” His gaze had shifted once more to the viewport, and his hand gripped the knife handle so tightly his knuckles were white. “But while I was sulking, my family—my whole world—was fighting. And dying.”

  “Dax, there was nothing you could have done. Corling had ten full tactical wings. It was over in a matter of hours.”

  “I should have been there. It was my place.”

  “You would have died with them.”

  His head snapped around. “Yes!” He took a short breath. “Yes, I would have died with them! I should have died with them!”

  Califa’s eyes widened in realization. “You wish you had, don’t you? Eos, you’re still trying to join them, even now. Your recklessness, and crazy changes . . . you want to die!”

  His eyes were alive with a fire she would never have wished there. “I should have been there. Every damn day I remind myself I should have been there. And if I forget, just looking at Rina reminds me.” He was panting now, his chest rising and falling in quick movements. “And now . . . now I know they’re alive, God, some of them are alive, and still fighting, and I . . . I can’t—”<
br />
  His words broke off with a choking sound, and he turned his back on her. Guilt rang in every word of his impassioned declaration, and Califa knew he would indeed welcome death, to end the agony he felt for not having been there to fight for his home. And she had only made it a hundredfold worse, with her news that some of his people struggled on, while he was out breaking their highest laws.

  She saw a shudder ripple through him, then another. For a moment she thought he was crying, but she heard no sounds.

  He was in the dark, all alone. When he talked, his voice sounded funny, all thick . . .

  Rina’s words came back to her, making so much more sense now, so much brutal sense. She wondered if he had ever cried for all his losses. Even she had managed that, the night she had realized she had truly been cast into slavery, and it had been only that release that had enabled her to go on. But she doubted that Dax would allow himself that; guilt rode him harder than any slave master.

  He shifted slightly, and the faint glow from the viewport reflected off his skin. His back was broad and strong, the gold Triotian skin like silkcloth stretched over taut muscle, smooth and unbroken. Unbroken except for an odd set of faint, crisscrossed lines that began just below his shoulder blades and continued down to his narrow waist.

  Whip marks.

  The answer came to her on a rush of nausea; these were the scars he bore for Rina. The scars from the flogging he had willingly endured in order to ease the mind of a child who was too young to accept probability as an answer. An image leapt into her mind, of Dax chained, his back stripped bare for the lash, the silent—for she was certain he would never scream—endurance as they struck him again and again.

  This man shamed her. His emotions ran true and deep, and he made a mockery of the way she had lived most of her life, skimming along on the surface, never seeing reality, or feeling it. For so long she had held herself above such things with a smug superiority, until she had lost touch with any true emotions she’d ever had. Until she had lost what little feeling she had for anyone. And until she had lost her last—and truest—friend.

  The brutal reality of her enslavement had torn that facade from her. She was pared down to the core of her being, and had only her pitiful skills to rebuild with. If she were ever able to become half the person this man was, she would count it a job well done.